Crimson Christmas
by KeepCalmFanFicExists
Summary: It's Christmas Night and Voldemort and Bellatrix are celebrating on their own. A simple act makes Voldemort take a travel in time and remember how Christmas was when he was a boy. The contrast is just too harsh, he should be careful what he lets Bella see... -set during the First Wizarding War.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and this is by no means a religious statement, I am merely portraying the era it takes place in as accurately as possible._

_The regular story takes place during the First Wizarding War, and the flashback in Christmas of 1936. The girl mentioned here, Tonja, is considerably older than young Tom, but not old enough, sadly._

The storm was raging outside the Black Castle that Christmas Night. The heavy drops of water that had landed on the windows of the highest tower were frequently illuminated by flashes of lightning, but the inhabitants of the room were happily oblivious to the mayhem.

A man and a young woman were lying on the plush daybed that was located in the middle of the vast room, covered by two furry blankets. Lord Voldemort was supporting his head on a matching pillow, while Bellatrix was resting hers on his chest. He wasn't really the type to let anyone take such liberties, but after what had just happened, what he had done to her, she had every right to be exhausted.

A small, delicate table was standing next to them, providing them with champagne and strawberries with chocolate. Voldemort stretched his hand to get the silver bowl and offered Bellatrix a small strawberry. She was sleepy though, and preferred to just stay huddled close to him. As her slim fingers were tracing the awful scars on his chest, he dipped the berry in the chocolate and took a bite. There was odd contrast between the luxurious taste of the combination of fruit and chocolate and the painful wounds that had been inflicted on him. Voldemort turned his gaze to the bright fire and there the dancing flames turned into shapes of the past.

He was back at the institution many decades ago, when he had not yet confirmed his suspicions on his peculiar abilities. The heavens were raging back then too, only he had no warm blankets or comfortable couches. The pile of straws he used for a bed was wet from the water that was dripping from the ceiling and the worn cloths he was wearing were sticking on his malnourished body. He was supposed to wear "his best" for the occasion, in other words, he was allowed to put on something else than the raw grey tunic that served as the orphanage's uniform, but he didn't really care.

The other children were delighted though; the halls of the orphanage were buzzing with excitement as its inhabitants were moving from room to room like occupied bees comparing ragged ribbons, dresses in different stages of decay and holes in shoes. Because this was their lucky day. On Christmas Day the rich and devout families would visit the institutions that offered a pretence of shelter to the children of a lesser god and give them presents and wishes that one day they too would have the chance to be like them. And everyone knew that, even though their visitors were coming from the pure goodness of their hearts, they would prefer the best looking, smartest and neatest children as receivers of the goods. Mrs. Cole couldn't agree more, her very important guests shouldn't have their pretty eyes gauged out by the filth of the city's slums and so she had threatened those who wouldn't pay the appropriate attention to their appearance and behaviour with being beaten and banned from the institution.

Tom, on the other hand, had never particularly cared about Mrs. Cole's stupid rules and threats, and there had been times he had actually wondered whether living on the streets would have been better than this prison. He had no interest in charming anyone today, anyway, and looking smart and noticeable would only be a burden to the delicate mission of lightening everyone else's pockets. Accepting food and gifts like a common beggar boy was something he would never do, but stealing what he could... well, there was nothing wrong with that, if he was really starving. And he was.

He rearranged his clothes so that they kept him as warm as possible, and he left his room trying to keep his limbs from shivering.

"Given up, have you, Riddle?" Tonja sneered at him from the end of the hall, making a gang of boys laugh cruelly, "realised everyone knows what a little creep you are and you're not even bothering to look normal? Smart move, maybe they'll take you in a zoo with the label 'FREAK' on your cage!"

Tom calmly approached the girl. He thought that if her circumstances had been different, she could have even been considered pretty, but her rough life had taken that away from her. She was in a great mood, apparently, otherwise she wouldn't have dared aggravate him.

"Like you could read the label," he said in a manner that showed his teeth, " as far as you know, it could be saying very flattering things about me. You'd have to take my word for it. Now why don't you go get yourself fucked and maybe you'll live to be tormented another day?"

He left for the ground floor before Tonja could understand exactly how she had been threatened. The place had been cleaned up in the days before and had some sad cloths put up to hide the worst parts and also give a festive feeling. It was already flooded with people, orphans and staff and 'high guests'. The last ones were very easily recognised by their extravagant clothing: bright colours with precious gems, feathery hats and shiny shoes, all sparkling with the slightest disturbance. Their faces were pink and full from the warmth and good food they enjoyed and their skin smooth as they had never done manual labour. The gentlemen observed the crowd with a business-like expression and the fine ladies were surrounded by armies of orphans battling for their attention. They listened to their stories with handkerchiefs at the ready, shedding tears for the lies the little bastards were saying.

Tom started walking nonchalantly among the little groups that had been formed trying not to laugh hard at the bizarre scene he had to observe every year. "Happy hunting", he muttered to himself. Sure thing, after some time he had earned himself a fair amount of presents. Three books, a jacket, a scarf and delicacies like cookies and muffins. He would always pass the families that were donating old and new toys, as he didn't need any kind of silly things, but these seemed to be the most popular presents.

Tonja had dropped the tough act and was now smiling girlishly to a young woman in an eye-watering orange dress with a huge bow on the back. The kind woman was holding a boy's hand in a sailor shirt who, in turn, was holding two small packages. The one was obviously a lavishly clad doll that was Tonja's target and the other was a neat pile of paper with a nice collection of pencils and erasers. His eyes shone red and a spark lit up in the empty cavity where his heart was supposed to be. He had had a fair amount of books for himself, most of them taken from stores and schools he was not allowed to attend, but he only rarely had anything to write his own thoughts on. An expression of determination appeared on his face, only to be instantly extinguished, for he realised the little boy had disappeared from his mother's side.

Not a fan of colourful language, he was about to swear loudly, when something pulled his shirt. He turned around to actually hit the source and found himself looking into the eyes of the boy. He had a sweet chubby face with tuffs of brown hair falling on his eyes and he was smiling. He also had raised the hand with the papers and pencils.

"Here, poor boy," he said in a childish voice, "have those for Christmas, you're not alone, baby Jesus loves you."

Tom looked at him and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran through his spine.

"Take it, poor boy, you'll like it, you don't have to be alone this Christmas." The little sailor's voice came out even merrier than before.

Tom blinked and remained completely still, waiting for the urge to shove the pencils down the boy's throat and choke him with it to subside. But when it did, something even more horrifying emerged: a crimson colour that burned his neck and ears and cheeks. Shame.

"I can't take those," he blurted out in a very non Tom-ish manner, only for the burning to reach his temples.

"But you have to take them, they'll make you happy! And I'm giving them to you!"

Now Tom started to back away with trembling feet. All he wanted was to hide away and wait until his face had its paleness back.

"I really cannot accept those," he stated, closer to his usual curt tone this time. Dark shadows appeared under his eyes and the boy's jaw dropped.

"B-but you're st-starving and you- want-" he stammered, apparently scared and confused. It had never been heard of an orphan denying a gift.

"I am _not_," he lied, trying to ignore the fact that his face was talking darker shades of scarlet now. "I'll have you know-"

"Donald!" the woman in the orange dress appeared from the crowd. "Donald, oh I was so worried, you can't just run off to- what are you doing? Oh, how sweet of you, my darling boy, giving your pencils yourself to this young man. Here you go, lad, merry Christmas and God be with you!"

Her amber eyes opened kindly like her son's as she put in a tomato-faced Tom's hand the parcel without noticing the aura around their small group getting electrified and darker by the second. Tom himself was finding it harder and harder to maintain a façade of calmness and-

"Is everything all right?" The amber eyes disappeared to be replaced by Bella's dark blue ones and they were wide with worry. Voldemort blinked twice to remember where he was and what was happening. Bellatrix was fully alert now and supporting herself on her shoulder so she could see his face up close.

"Your face," she whispered uncomfortably, "it's flushed, I mean- and the room, it's all-" She made a broad gesture and Voldemort realised that the room, like in his memory, had gone dark and cold and his magic, much stronger now, was freezing the windows and zapping the fire. Even Bellatrix' hair seemed to be responding to the electricity, standing up a bit. And she was right, his cheeks were crimson.

"And you're not-" she continued, turning equally scarlet as she pointed at his groin area. He smiled at her confusion. His pale face would get a bit of colour only when he was aroused, but no growth of the respective places made the theory non-valid. That, in combination with the darkest part of his magic flaring up, was what had made Bella worried something was really, really wrong.

Taking pleasure in Bellatrix' terror, he was able to take his mind off things and control his magic again. The room became warm and welcoming and his cheeks were drained from colour.

"Everything is fine," he reassured her quietly, "go back to sleep."

"But-"

"I said everything is fine, Bella," he said, giving an end to the discussion. She shrugged back and lowered her head. He loosened her elbow and moved her body back the way it was. Bellatrix cast him one last worried look and then turned her attention to the scars on his chest again. She was far from convinced he was okay, but she dared not talk more.

Voldemort smiled to himself as he saw her stretch her body and wrap her arms around him, as if to convince herself she hadn't broken the odd bond they shared, that he wouldn't leave her alone. He didn't feel the need to comfort her, he just left her there, drowning in her paranoid speculations on his reactions.

Wasn't that proof, living and breathing proof, that he had no need for help and had every right to be offended when others felt pity for him? It was infuriating to even think of such a thing. He was the greatest sorcerer of all time, a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and he deserved every single thing he was able to enjoy now; the fine rooms, the delicious meals, the comfortable clothes; the undivided attention he inevitably got when he stepped in a room; being addressed as "lord" or "master"; the body and soul of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

When he had been first introduced to the luxurious ways of the wizarding nobility, he found out it suited him great, better than it suited any of its members, and Bellatrix had just a few hours ago muttered in a dreamy fashion that he 'rocked' the dinner jacket. He wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but the point was pretty obvious.

Voldemort removed the hair that was covering her waist to reveal alabaster skin. Bellatrix had recently painted a pair of black wings on her upper back and he ran his long fingers across the lines of the pattern, as he spoke in a gentler, yet more playful tone:

"Get some rest, my dark angel, you will be needing it soon."

Bellatrix purred and her eyes shone lustfully. Yes, this was his place on earth: exactly in the centre.

_A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think._


End file.
